


Hot Stuff, or The night Hannibal realized he was well and truly whipped

by ferventrabbit



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Crack, F/M, Hannibal sings a lullaby, Hannigram Secret Santa, Hannigram holiday exchange 2015, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Will does karaoke, fluff and musings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-08 21:25:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5513888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ferventrabbit/pseuds/ferventrabbit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal wakes up to find Will is missing. His search leads to some surprising discoveries.<br/>_______</p><p>For <a href="http://aclowderofchattingcats.tumblr.com/">aclowderofchattingcats</a>'s prompt: "I tend to be kind of a sucker for fluff. Cuddles  or kisses, walks in the snow and warm drinks and scarves or anything else along those lines make me a happy blogger. Honestly though, if the gift giver is having fun, that's what I like to see the most. :)"</p><p>Tried to incorporate as much fluff into a concept I've been dying to do! Hope you enjoy :-D</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hot Stuff, or The night Hannibal realized he was well and truly whipped

Hannibal woke to the deafening sound of silence. It was sometime past midnight – the fire had died down, and the darkness wrapped tight around the light of the streetlamps. Hannibal was not surprised to find Will’s side of the bed empty. He hadn’t asked Will about it, though the he could taste the worry clinging to the back of his throat. More often than not, Will came home around two or three a.m., his breath dipped in whiskey and his movements sluggish. Hannibal feigned sleep during each late homecoming, though he suspected Will knew he was awake, waiting for him.

Something about this night left Hannibal on the dangerous side of uneasy. It couldn’t go on.

He tied his hair back into a low bun at the nape of his neck and slipped into the trousers and shirt left draped over the arm of a chair. There were parts of his meticulous neatness that Will admired, but Hannibal learned that Will preferred the bedroom comfortably messy. Hannibal endeavored to indulge him.

He gave the front door a tug as he locked it and swept down the narrow stairs. The hallway smelled of cigarette smoke and bad perfume. Hannibal breathed slowly in and out of his mouth until he reached street level, shouldering through the door with relief. The cigarette smoke with inevitable, but he had identified the source of the perfume almost immediately. When he said as much, Will merely shook his head.

The Rue de Rivoli was lit purple and orange from the colonnades above the archways, the shops and bars filling the street with noise. Hannibal floated along the sidewalk and felt the familiar embrace of strangers on either side. Before the fall he would welcome the press of people around him, curious to see which of them might mike the fatal error. Now he did his best to fold within in their presence, feeling as though he must hold his breath in case of an errant shove or a rude word. He could feel Will’s appreciative smile, the brush of his hand. Hannibal found that this praise was almost enough.

His eyes were accustomed to plucking detail from chaos, to slicing through the muck and deciphering meaning. Years of hunting people had its requisite perks. He scanned both sides of the street with a sweeping gaze, alert for dark curls and hunched shoulders. He assumed that Will spent hours walking alone in their neighborhood, maybe beyond it. His French wasn’t good enough to afford other opportunities. He imagined Will deep in thought, hands shoved in his pockets, hair clinging to his forehead. He might keep a few crumbling treats in his hand to lure stray dogs he found nestled in the dark. Hannibal couldn’t decide if he would allow Will to keep one.

Hannibal passed a nightclub and several shuttered stores, men and women leaning in the doorways with cigarettes passing between them, lewd speech echoing. Hannibal had been delighted to discover that Will blushed easily. Since they arrived in Paris, Will’s cheeks were perennially pink, his ears flushed red. “The people are very… _French_ ,” he’d said. Hannibal supposed Will gleaned as much from the gestures as the words themselves. He only nodded, chagrined at the instinctive speeding of his heart whenever Will spoke to him – a rare occurrence since their escape from the Atlantic. It angered and enthralled him. It had not been this way for all of their acquaintance. In fact, Hannibal suspected that it began with _it’s beautiful_ , the shape and tone of Will’s voice bleeding into him with bright heat. Will’s voice.   

“Sittin’ here, eating my heart out, waiting, waitin’ for some lover to call.”

The throaty baritone drifted down from an open window of a two-story bar, the curls of an American accent biting into the night. Hannibal didn’t realize he was moving until he was.

“Dialed about a thousand numbers lately, almost rang the phone off the wall.”

Hannibal had seen many things in his life. He’d seen the life drain slowly from human eyes, blood pool around his feet on smooth stone. Seen a full-grown man tumble from a horse’s belly, meat and muscle wrapped around the bones of an ancient skeleton. All of it paled in comparison to the sight of Will Graham with a microphone in his hand, singing karaoke in a dive bar in France.

“Lookin' for some hot stuff, baby this evenin',  
I need some hot stuff, baby tonight,  
I want some hot stuff, baby this evenin',  
Gotta have some hot stuff,  
Gotta have some love tonight.”

He had heard Will sing before in brief snippets, mostly when Will thought no one could here him. He’d stood at his shoulder during Abigail’s birthday celebration at the Port Haven Psychiatric facility, Alana leading a chorus of what was perhaps Hannibal’s least favorite American custom. Listening to Will’s soft rendition had warmed him to the concept. Then he had caught the indiscernible lyrics of a Billy Joel song when Will showered, months after they had arrived at Hannibal’s safehouse in South Carolina. Listened to the lilting hum a Christmas carol as Will chopped carrots in December. But _this_.

Will swayed in time with the cheap synths, whiskey in hand. Some of it sloshed over the rim of his glass as he moved. He wore the new jeans that Hannibal bought him, the denim clinging to slim hips. Hannibal had raised what he thought were valid concerns about Will’s choice in wardrobe, citing the ill-fitting button downs and baggy pants, but Will had still managed to find a tattered, too-big flannel during their strolls in Paris and wore it tonight with a broad, drunken smile. Hannibal admired the juxtaposition.

“I need hot stuff  
I want some hot stuff  
I need –“

Will’s voice clipped abruptly, hanging on an awkward note. He met Hannibal’s eyes with wide pupils. His mouth dropped wide open, and Hannibal could imagine the sound of Will’s heartbeat as it hammered in his chest. There were many things Hannibal thought to say and do, including tearing the microphone from Will’s hand and shoving him against the curtained wall, slipping his tongue between Will’s lips. They had done nothing beyond hold hands in moments of understanding, and to Hannibal’s delight he could not predict what Will’s reaction might be. So he merely raised an eyebrow, recalling Will’s coquettish presentation at the BSCHI. _Please?_

Hannibal felt Will uncoil, felt Will’s small smile dive right into his own throat, catching the breath there. Will brought the microphone closer to his mouth and exhaled into it, closing his eyes. The world narrowed to his hands, his skin, the thin line of sweat on his forehead. Will caught up with the song with practiced ease.

“How's 'bout some hot stuff, baby this evenin' .“

A swivel of hips.

“I need some hot stuff baby tonight.“

Fingers running through soft hair.

“Gimme little hot stuff baby this evenin'.“

Eyes flashing open, holding.

“Hot stuff baby  
Gonna need your love tonight.”

Will took a bracing swig of whiskey before stepping off the stage. The rest of the track played on wordlessly to the hisses and scoffs of the drinkers in residence. He left his empty glass on the bar and walked to the back of the room, stumbling twice. Hannibal thought to reach out and catch him, but he wanted what he always wanted most – for Will to come to him freely, alone.

“Umm,” Will said. Hannibal caught the quick flush of Will’s cheeks.

“Hello, Will.”

“Will,” said a man from a table near the stage. “Qu'en est-il des deux autres? Il est une tradition.” Will’s shoulders shrugged up, tense.

“I’ve been coming here three nights a week to do karaoke,” he said in a rush. He punctuated the end of his sentence with a tiny hiccup.

“So it seems. A newly acquired pastime?”

Will’s response was to chuckle under his breath. Hannibal itched to touch him.

“Shall we?” Hannibal said. He didn’t wait for Will’s answer before turning on his heel and gliding down the stairs. He waited at the door and kept his eyes on the street, noting the empty archways and shadows swaying home. Will arrived in a puff of whiskey. Hannibal breathed him in. “What exactly is ‘hot stuff,’ Will? I’m assuming -”

“Nope,” said Will, and Hannibal was surprised to find himself dragged out of the bar by his elbow, Will’s hand firm and steady. The street was musky with smoke and sex.

Hannibal let Will lead him down the six blocks to the apartment. He watched the cold air sap the flush from Will’s cheeks, felt Will’s footfall straighten and soften. By the time they reached the front door Will had let go of Hannibal’s arm and was studying the ground with downturned lips.

“Come,” said Hannibal, and he ushered Will upstairs and into the bathroom. He turned on the taps to the shower and felt the temperature warm on his palm. Hannibal could feel Will’s embarrassment like hot breath on his neck. “You have a lovely singing voice, Will.”

“Oh Jesus don’t.”

“Did you regularly sing disco karaoke in Wolf Trap, I wonder? I’ll admit that the thought had not crossed my mind, though now I am envisioning it with avid fascination.”

“Hannibal - “

At the sound of his name Hannibal turned on a dime, his face devoid of amusement. “I worried,” he said. The crease in Will’s forehead softened, and he closed his eyes with a sigh.

“I’m sorry. I felt - I felt trapped, I guess. I needed to do something crazy.”

“If this is your idea of crazy, Will, I worry about our compatibility.”

At that Will huffed a laugh, and his eyes flashed open. “No, you don’t.” His hand twitched up, and for a moment Hannibal thought Will was reaching for him.

“Take a shower,” Hannibal said.

***

When Will emerged his hair clung damp to his forehead, and the smooth line of his scar blushed pink beneath dark stubble. Normally Will dressed for bed in the bathroom, but tonight a towel hung low on his hips. Hannibal’s eyes traced the thin smile left by his knife.

“You felt trapped.”

“Can we not have this conversation? I don’t think I’ve ever been more mortified.”

“I meant what I said.”

“Which part?” Will had his back to Hannibal as he groped for a pair of boxers in the dresser drawer. Hannibal sidled up behind him, and when he snaked a hand around Will’s chest they both shivered.

“You have a lovely singing voice.” He brought his lips to hover above the skin of Will’s neck. “And I worried.”

Hannibal felt the instant Will surrendered and relished it, had yearned for it since the night on the cliff’s edge. He recalled the scent of ozone, sweet and close before a clap of thunder. He had choked on it for weeks.

Will tipped his head back onto Hannibal’s shoulder and exhaled long and slow. Hannibal thought of everything he might do, of Will opening up so he could taste him and the soft stretch of Will’s skin beneath his hand, the blade of a knife, blood spilling down into Hannibal’s mouth in thick drops. Instead Hannibal held him like this, rocking him until Will’s body sagged with exhaustion. Hannibal hummed near the shell of Will’s ear.

“What’s that?” Will’s voice was low, rumbling.

“An old folksong. From home.”

“Mmm,” Will said. Hannibal drew soft circles on his belly.

“O atsimenu nameli, ta gimtini savo,  
Kur motule prie lopselio supdama niuniavo.  
O dainele ta lopsine, ta daina motules,  
Ir kasdiena man ausyse skamba ciucia liulia.”

By the time he eased Will onto the bed Will’s eyes had fluttered closed. Hannibal watched the rise and fall of his chest and imagined the heart within it. At one time he would have preferred it warm and beating in his hand, raw as he tore it between his teeth. He was less and less certain of his preference now.

He eased the knot of the towel and tossed it aside. When he slipped into the bed he pulled Will into his arms, shocked by the delicate curve of his spine.

“Ciucia liulia kudikeli, auk greiciau uzaugi,  
Ir tevyne ir Dievulis taves jauno laukia.  
Kai isklysiu i pasauli, platu, begalini,  
Teviskeles atminimas man laimuze mini.”

Will’s breath eased into soft snores, the rise and fall of his ribs playing across Hannibal’s chest. Hannibal whispered the rest of the lullaby into Will’s shoulder and thought of him bright and beautiful beneath stage lights, the ringing of his laughter and brown curls tucked behind his ear. _Yes_ , he decided, _trapped is an apt description._

He held Will close until the sun rose.

**Author's Note:**

> I found THE CREEPIEST music video for the lullaby Hannibal sings, which you can see [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qkaczVWoigo). Did I mention it's the creepiest?
> 
> Also, the French guy says something like "What about the other two, Will? It's tradition!" You can decide for yourself what else Will has up his karaoke sleeve :-)


End file.
